“John,” she said, “I can spare you that question. ” He looked at her, his eyes illuminated by the glow of the dashboard. His light brown hair was almost crew cut short. She fell into a pleasant dream of positions and work. Seeing Capes from day to day made a bright eventfulness that hampered her in the course she had resolved to follow. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Jackson smiled and put on the air of a man who knows more than he cares to tell. There all the loose characters thronged, assignations were openly made, and the spectators diverted themselves with the vagaries of its miserable inhabitants. The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. Stanley, standing up with a sudden geniality and rubbing his hands together.
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